The Better Path
by Chair in the Stairway
Summary: When faced with insignificance and choosing from two paths, is the road less traveled really any better?
1. Burning Out

_**Introduction: **_**Burning Out**

One might suppose this story is to be "kicked off", as you might say, with an eruption of flames tearing through a complex mixture of skin, fur, and metal that was anything but meant to be, or the searing light of a cohesive collection of photon silently ripping through the annals of space as they close in on their screaming targets. One might be absolutely right, though a tinge of dashing blue feathers must be added to the scene in mind to maintain the intended effect.

Although, before we dive completely into depths of hues originating from the reds, whites, and blues of a battlefield, we must take time into account like those in a slaughterhouse would and analyze this confrontation from the start, or before that, and in all dimensions available (high definition not supported). As one might imagine, the stars were about, conversing with their vast arrays of gestures, from twinkling to imploding, not aware of the strikingly obvious fixtures of wings and deadly things constructed by beings not fit enough to compose themselves, but, rather, decompose; and rapidly. After all, the stars, so very bright with all their might, were worshiped for their brilliant mockery of the gods, though, like the gods, they could be stolen from the sky with one foul swoop. Taken by surprise, these stars scrambled after the first of their numbers had been delivered to their own shining superiors and were chased mercilessly by the skilled pilots who dictated the paths of their own clunky, though noiseless, collection of bolts, reinforced steel, and death, the last of which was in more concentrated forms than you can count on one hand. One pilot in particular seemed to be especially exceptional at his job.

This pilot seemed to skillfully skate through scattered shots that leaped through the absence of air with a school child's sense of cautiousness, jumping from the first block in a game of fatal hopscotch that started at the blasters and ended with the most combustible piece of the enemy's craft. As you might imagine, each square that these focused frenzies of photon landed on made them offer up just a little more of their balance in exchange for making it just a little bit farther, causing them to eventually spiral out of control and expand in size. One would figure this to be rather useless, but it was actually quite deadly, illustrating our main focus' level of skill through his complex weavings, outlined by his seemingly effortless motions. It seemed he was invincible when the frailty of each flying contraption and the being within is forgotten, even amidst all the fireworks covering the skies as if the stars were unfit to young eyes. Most of these fireworks were, of course, triggered by the twitchy finger of our skillful pilot.

As photon seemed to rain down, up, right, left, and any other direction known to Cornerians, our skillful pilot sampled his weapons, cycling his fingers to the first position designated by his mind, which allowed for the regular guns to be utilized. Two large eyes rolled through their sockets as they attempted to register the sight of an enemy craft, only to be redirected to the flank of the ship by the rear-view mirror known as instinct. The tidy form of our skillful pilot was ruined as he whirled around in his seat, despite prior training not to, and his eyelids lowered while the feathers around them burned to a crisp. His back slapped against the cushioning in unison with his elbows as he jerked the controls towards his body, initiating a tight loop which brought him neatly up, over, and around the back of his pursuer. The poor soul was far too surprised by such a moderate move that he recollected his sense in time to realize one wing had been blown off and the engine had been pushed to the point of over heating. Our skillful pilot batted his eyelashes and look away as an explosion, as if to find another target, engulfed his late pursuer, then went about redirecting his sights. He practically drooled as a beautiful view of another ship's thrusters came into view; one could assume our skillful was aroused by such.

The dull hums and lights of the thrusters yonder flared up as the ship yonder still grew frantic. It pulled upward, mirroring the actions of the pilot in the cockpit as he realized shit was about to hit the fan, or, more accurately, the photon was about to hit the highly explosive thrusters. He didn't get much farther than ninety degrees before our skillful pilot had already batted his eyelashes and proceeded to glance away from the ensuing explosion, to find yet another target, though the radio frequency in his headset had apparently been adjusted to pick up all messages, thus a burst of agonizing screaming, which lasted a brief two [point] zero six five seconds (our skillful pilot counted in between flinches), flowed in through the speakers, only to be drowned out by a mangled mess of static. The radio frequency automatically mapped itself to pick up the ranting of another pilot, but our own flipped the universal switch. He was wearing a scowl underneath his layers of metallic plating and elastic plastic; one which, oddly enough, exactly matched the moon's given form at the time, according to its cycle charts.

Our skillful pilot was distressed.

He found himself losing interest in the dog fight, as most of his supposed adversaries had been picked off already, and cursing the headset for switching _itself_ into universal mode, or coming preset like that; the one or the other escaped our skillful pilot at this time. Such a detail didn't really seem to matter now as he pealed it from his head and tossed it off to the side of the cockpit, then wrapped his fingers around the controls of the Arwing he so comfortably sat in and turned them harshly to the left. A planet was thrown into view. It was crisp and blue as the ocean that lapped up against its lands; no hanging clouds obscured the view. Our skillful pilot found it rather comforting to allow his fingers to drift from the controls, allowing him to sporadically float, in retrospect, towards the planet that was so appealing, turning from a calmly humming mass of metal to a burning piece of tin foil in an oven. This didn't seem to affect our skillful pilot, either way, as he relished the thought of becoming a blazing red slash on the face of this beautifully blue piece of craftsmanship. It was hard to say whether or not this thought was malicious.

The headset flung across the cockpit was casually retrieved, placed on our pilot's noggin, and flipped back on, just in time to hear a batch of eerie voices begging our pilot to delay the day in which his feathers would all burn red, as well as a few light chirps in the background. These chirps weren't especially annoying, though they were erratic in volume and proceeded to grow rigid, then smooth, as they grew louder, then softer.

The flames outside the ship started coming within and our skillful pilot found himself teleporting as he sat forward to greet them. He ended up in a familiar bed in a familiar room with a familiar bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. Familiar sheets were cast from this familiar form as its ears registered the familiar message that faithfully played after each and every recovery of consciousness. _'Chirp, chirp; wake up, Falco! Chirp, chirp; wake up, Lombardi!'_


	2. Clipped Wings

_**Chapter One:**_** Clipped Wings**

If there was anything, these days, that our skillful pilot, graceful among the clouds and illuminating of magnificent displays of seemingly malignant collections of photon that rivaled the stars in luminosity, could not handle skillfully, it was gliding that steaming mass of feathers and flesh, warmed by a day's excitement, under the sheets and begging it, pleading it, to comply with nature's insistence upon a good night's sleep. More often than not, it would be reluctant to comply, only falling to rest after viciously cycling through many fidgets and figurative situations, most of which were exciting, formed solely by the mind of this being, which so mercilessly hacked through hours upon hours of apparent sleep without so much as a second thought or a triggered fidget that would cause the head to turn or, perhaps, the eye lashes to bat as they had (which does imply that nearly every other string attached steadfastly to every other limb or body part was pulled). This night, like every other night that dragged itself about profusely only to arrive at an end once those pupils were surely covered, had come to be known as one of those nights, those dreaded nights, in which reaching the Land of Dreams was about as much a piece of cake as a journey through Middle Earth, or probably even less so. In either case, the Land of Dreams had been snatched away, once again, by the hands of the sandman, who thought it funny, and hardly cruel, to sprinkle sandbox grade sand within our skillful pilot's eyes rather than the mystical micro clumps of dirt and god-knows-what-else that usually graces the brows and cheekbones and eye sockets of insomnia stricken children.

The sheets were thrown and the pillows beat and the feathers ruffled and the clothes fetched as the mattress, which was no less comfortable than an originally smooth-surfaced rock that had grown to outline the curves and edges of its primary user, was left for a more preferable place of rest, the shower, though this skillful pilot had to come to terms with his dislike for frigid icicles slithering down his form each and every morning rather than fiery serpents; he _had _to, as when General Hare had taken a fall not too long ago, he took the pass codes allowing the customization of this ship's every little detail to the grave with him. This was but one of the two reasons the mass of metal was slowly cruising back to Corneria. The second, well, slipped from the mind of this skillful pilot as he indulged in his second area of rest, taking a few seconds to keep himself from nodding off before wondering why, for a few more seconds wondering just why, his body chose to grow weary when spiked shards collided with it.

Grievances were soon forgotten, or, rather, misplaced as the stream of water was set to off, allowing that which had already made their journey around each and every muscle and feather and tip of that body to drip down the drain, so as to be fed into a contraption which recycled each and every drop it greedily sucked up. A towel was engaged and disengaged, almost as quickly as the shower had been initiated and aborted, only for a particular assortment of clothes (a plain, black t-shirt, an orange jacket with a hoody of debatable use, and a pair of elongated blue pants that reached beyond our skillful pilot's soles) to be equipped, which were to be discarded at the end of today or the beginning of tomorrow. The usual morning piss followed, then a flush of the toilet with the sink passed over in favor of the door, at least until a realization occurred, one which pointed out that an sudden decrease in duty would lead to the increase of time needed to be filled, thus, the faucets were turned, leading to an illustration of good hygiene that was often left out of the equation that made up our skillful pilot's mornings.

Time used to be, or soon would be seen as something that used to be, appreciated, as this life, this militaristic life, had stolen so much of it, only to give home sickness and scars, both mental and physical, and lost relationships and medals in return, and possibly, if one is lucky, the chance at brandishing broken limbs, possibly to flaunt in the faces of healthy, and quite able, grandchildren, or perhaps other beings' grandchildren. Time used to be filled with displays of malicious attitudes that were often as shallow as the text in any celebrity gossip magazine, which were, quite often, pried from racks by those skinny, tween fingers, read by those oversized tween eyes and digested by that undersized, and still quite impressionable, tween brain. Time used to flood the annals of any young being's mind, filling them to the brim with the creativity to utilize the excess of time by throwing themselves in the way of every and any mainstream past time, often seen by those quite a bit older, and those whom have long since left their impressionable stages of life in favor of a far longer, far bitter stage that stretches from the finger tips of life to the corresponding fingertips of death on the other side, as a waste of time, though it's anything but, considering every moment of that impressionable stage is a moment influencing the beings trapped within it. Time used to be all this; first in excess, then cherished, and now...well, our skillful pilot knew not. He hoped it would become something with effects that would not prove to be ephemeral.

McCloud, as he was, lounging about in the octagon halls of this fine ship, thought nothing of time, as time, as it seemed, just passed and was only captured by the grasp of cloudy memories and eleven by eight and one half inches picture frames. Those memories that were significant would be held by this skillful pilot, though less so than our skillful pilot, whilst the remaining minutes would be cast to the oceans of Corneria to be engulfed and made just about as significant as each grain of sand that comprises those shores. It was with this characteristic of thinking that one could safely assume McCloud to be a man of military flavor, especially when one came to know his father, whom regularly tinged him with views dressed as certain flares and spices, just to round out the dish that he helped to create so the family pride would live on. It did live on, as illustrated by the honorable display this fine soldier put on; uniform neatly pressed and donned, as always, eyes flicking back and forth as the wall was leaned against, so as to remain ever watchful of this ship, of which he was in command, possibly permanently, and the required position, legs straightened and laid right next to each other while both arms are stretched out, then bent sharply and crossed behind the back; a greatly poked out chest, which appeared slightly more ridiculous than intended, was the icing on the honorable cake.

Those attentive eyes flashed to the side, spotting the first breach of this day, calling the host of those attentive eyes to relax his position and bring his arms forward, either to slap palms, shake hands, or merely wave, alongside his eventual verbal greetings. A startling discovery caused this greeting to be withdrawn, even only temporarily, as the emerging being, whom had just exited his room, tossing a stress ball from his feathered palm, then catching it no more than a milliminute later, glided down the hall with a careless spring in his step. "Lombardi," McCloud called to him with a half-open palm raised in salutations, then spun about as two fingers bent back towards the base, touching down at around the area where it appeared as if they had been stitched onto the hand, while the other two slung out, placing attention on our skillful pilot, whom glanced from his stress ball, though didn't disrupt the throw-catch flow he had established with it, with a glazed expression. "The commanders are bound to fry you, should they see you clothed in this way."

"I'm not stirred-" Lombardi, our skillful pilot, stated as he tossed his stress ball to the wall, not bothering to peer in its general direction to see if his fingers were lined up properly. The ball ricocheted off the wall and slid back into that mass of feathers, disappearing beneath the deep blue. "-by their expectations or their punishments," He finished up as another toss and another catch, and yet another toss and another catch, was completed. "My respect only extends as far as my payroll."

"And that distraction," McCloud gestured towards the ball that has vanished within thin feathers, raising the left most side of his brow in a way that suggested heavy disbelief in his fellow pilot's claims, as he disregarded his comrade's statements. The same expression was thrown back at him, in unison with the stress ball, which McCloud fumbled, showing discontent with the term applied to the little distraction, taking aim away from what it really was and, instead, instilling within it an opinion that rocked its very purpose. "That horrid distraction-" He obtained the distraction after several swipes. "-will only serve to hamper you further in their favor. Remember-"

"-they're practically the enemy."

"Right."

"At the given moment, they _are _my enemy and forever will be, unless I'm stricken with amnesia as serious as a wandering youth's," Lombardi said indifferently, drawing a slight drop of the jaw from McCloud as he went on to wipe his beak, then take notice of the gawking. He sighed. "Surely, you've heard one of my many complaints by now," The fox standing across from him shook his head, earnestly believing he had not by now. "Well, I'm dropping from the force, seeing as our contracts have all expired along with poor General Hare," Lombardi began picking at his feathers, threatening to pluck them, as if the small, oddly shaped trees would respond in fear. "Why? Well, I just can't stand the thought of all my time being surrounded by masses of metal and _'uncomfortabilities'_ and enemies and this dark abyss, rather than by flourishing scenery and all the romantic options I could ever hope to come to terms with, among other things. I know, I know, you, my dear friend, should be just enough to keep me floating through space, but the bad far outweighs the good, out here, I'm afraid to say-" Which he truly wasn't. "Come touch down, I shall touch down completely and begin growing roots."

"But Falco-" McCloud had called to Lombardi affectionately, by his first name, displaying a sort of casualty that often betrayed that indignant uniform when the friendship held between both men had been brought into any equation. When the utterance had occurred, the soldier respectfully uttering it wore an expression that showcased shock lapping against the shores of his eyes and oozing from the pores of his very being, causing that brow to heave upwards whilst the muzzle below snapped open and the arms further below externally rotated, winding up in a position that was quite accustomed to predators and quite taxing to prey.

Such a position, with all its little idiosyncrasies and the sentence that had invoked it, was thrown into oblivion, and, therefore, left behind, as the ship was snatched by the hold of Corneria's gravitational pull and plunged towards its surface ever so carelessly. However, the beings on board did not panic, running about with arms flailing through the air, as this spiral was quite familiar, what with the fires bursting along the edges of the ship and the sudden increase in speed and the somersaults their stomachs underwent and the sky that passed ever so fast, only to be placed overhead as they were placed below, with only the burners to comfort them. It came to pass that silence shrouded both men, both friends, as they merely glanced at each other, groping the wall, with Lombardi adding a few casted glances towards the window as they fell; as this hunk of metal dragged them to a familiar surface. It would not bring doom to them, as this shaking mass had complete control over the given situation; the only ones who could bring about doom, bring about harm, to themselves and others was themselves, and possibly others, as vulnerable and oblivious to the future and unable to control their given situations and opinionated towards decisions as they were.

A loud thud, followed by the dull hiss of wind being knocked out from under the metallic mass that carried these beings ever carefully, followed by creaks and shutters that announced the plantation of this ship's roots, however temporary they were, which would sink into the soil, aiding in the unconvincing camouflaging effect, followed by a sizzling release of steam and particles that sailed up to the clouds after being set free from their life long prison; the prison known as the metallic mass. As the prison settled on its roots, both McCloud and Lombardi relaxed themselves, coming to a standing position that expressed a formal mutuality in accepting the decision of the winged one, whom wished to free himself only to clip his own wings, at least in McCloud's eyes. Silence shrouded the two once again as their gazes had met, and continued to meet, from across that window, which so gloriously displayed the beauty of this planet, a home away from home away from home, for those who were to leave just a little while later to behold and for those flaunting their citizenship about by staying to behold for now and take for granted later while they revel in wishes to fly back to the stars with their clipped wings.

At least, that's how McCloud looked at it.

"-Falco," The soldier repeated, gazing at his friend with grief that was cleverly hidden behind the best wishes he could bestow upon this man. "I suppose I wish you the best-" Even though he wished this section of Lombardi's life to be the worst, for McCloud longed for him to remain. "-and hope the worst only befalls on heads not your own."

Lombardi gave McCloud a careful look, studying his features as the man spoke, though refused to change his own. The only tinge that stiff expression came to be affected by was attentiveness and, from that, his long-time friend could not extract any real feelings or hopes or thoughts or ambitions; only attentiveness. "Don't get yourself killed," Lombardi finally answered, cleverly hiding his best wishes behind a common slice of advice. He then shifted to the side, glancing out the window once again, though his eyes did not cut back to McCloud. At this given point, he was not desired by those attentive eyes, which so readily slurped in the soup before them comprised of trees and streets and buildings, all giving off a sort of ominous glow that was not far different from the ships' floating throughout the black abyss above, coated with an inviting layer of blue, as Lombardi would come to find when his pupils surfed the clouds, though they were preferred to the latter. "Gotta go," Was the next sentence to leak that beak before its host collected his muscles and pushed them forward in a hurry, knocking McCloud from his path as he continued down it. The soldier wondered why this sudden departure had come about, but found the answer within the form of his current beloved; within the form of a Krystal.

"You appear distressed," It had stated to McCloud as it stretched its arms about him, bringing the man into a comforting embrace that shooed away silence and shrouded the two in a sort of lofty mood that drew all worries into a slumber. "Want to talk about it?"

"No," McCloud answered, falling into the trap that all men had fallen into in the past, and continued to do so to this day, illustrated by this very moment, that rendered them blind to problems sparked by feelings ignored more often than not. He looked into the face of his Krystal, seeing the twist in his features applied to its own, and frowning because of such. Regardless, the cherished mass allowed it to past; prying would do its beholder absolutely no good, at least at the present time; the Krystal had the mind to save prying for later, perhaps after a romantic encounter between the two, as McCloud would be quite vulnerable, quite emotionally stimulated by then. It was even speculated that he might cry! "We've a trip to make," He kissed his Krystal, then released it as he headed for his quarters, which remained only his due to relationship bars in this fine military of Corneria's. McCloud made it a note to change that one day, should he ever get the chance. "Best get ready."

Thus, the Krystal watched him walk down the hall, slightly slumped, then turned its head to the window, peering out at Falco, whom headed in the opposite direction in a stance that suggested if the trees and sun and grass and flowers about him could sing, he'd sing along with them as he walked that path.


End file.
